University Days
by AlessNox
Summary: For young Sherlock Holmes adjusting to life at University is difficult, and then Victor Trevor bowls him over, literally
1. The Dogs of war

Sherlock was finally beginning to settle in at Cambridge. He had been so excited to come, almost ecstatic. Mycroft had remarked on it as they sat down to dinner four months before. He'd said that Sherlock was _'as eager as an English Setter_'. He had replied by calling Mycroft fat, but it was true. He had been eager, because he had heard that University was a new start, a place where he would be valued for his intellect. He had moved onto campus with a glee that made him almost appear to be a happy person, and not the morose teen that he had been all those years in Public School.

But in this, as in most things, life had not lived up to his expectations. Sebastian had followed him up from Harrow. He had always been a popular bastard, arrogant, and envious of other's talents. He ended up living in the same house and with his slick smile and thinly concealed hostility for Sherlock, he made sure that all of the old nicknames followed him there.

"Morning Curly Shirley. Did you sleep well?" Sebastian said with a smile like hot oil. "Oh of course you didn't. You were sawing away on that violin until all hours. Don't you know that there's a rule against making obnoxious noises after nine."

"Good morning to you too, Sebastian. And I don't think that you have any room for complaining about obnoxious noises with the racket that you make having sex on the weekends."

"That's only on the weekends. Besides, I can't help it if I know how to please a woman."

"You? Please a woman? You are the one who does all of the screaming. She's always unsatisfied after sex with you. That's why after she leaves your room she lets Thompson grope her behind the stairwell."

The young men at the table laughed as Sebastian turned beet red. "Well at least I have someone willing to sleep with me. No one will ever touch you, so get your fill of the sounds while you can, Curly."

Sherlock turned away then and walked briskly toward the door, but not fast enough to avoid hearing the word, "Freak!" thrown at his back. He slammed the door to the sound of laughter as he strode out down the stairs.

Why was it always like this? Why was it that when two or three boys got together, their first thought was to gang up on him? He hated it. He hated them. Only the thought of learning new things kept him from packing and leaving it all behind.

It was an infuriatingly pleasant day. The grass was as green as it only was after a sustained rain. The clouds had fled soon after, and the last few days had been annoyingly bright and sunny. In response, the students had become even more intolerable in their leisure pursuits, lounging in the grass and frolicking like ponies around the fountains. Sherlock saw a flock of the smiling sheep in front of him, so he turned at a right angle and strode out toward the church, cutting across the lawn to avoid them.

His eyes were on his feet, not the way ahead, and so he totally failed to notice the leather cord trailing on the ground. He heard a yelp when he stepped on it, and before he could fully assess the situation, the beast was on him, teeth digging into his ankle.

It was more shock than pain that he felt when he looked down at the furry thing. He shook his leg, but when that didn't dislodge him, he began to kick at the head of the dog whose teeth were clamped firmly around his Tibia. That was when a heavy weight struck him in the back. He fell to the ground, twisting his ankle further as his mouth filled with the taste of grass and mud.

Then he heard a voice, deep and loud yelling, "Heel! Heel Tristan!" He not only heard the voice, but felt it through his back as he found himself pinned to the ground under someone with a huge chest and large tanned arms. Around him was a cacophony of barking as what seemed like a dozen dogs surrounded them. A hand reached down and dislodged the dog's teeth from his ankle giving him a moment of relief before the ache of the twisted muscle hit him, and he cried out.

Hands grabbed his shoulders then and turned him over, and he looked up in the face of his... could he call a man who had tackled him and caused him to twist his ankle his savior?

"Are you alright?" The man said.

Sherlock looked up at a large man. His hands held Sherlock's slight shoulders. His face was in shadow, but the bright sun glowed through his golden hair.

"Are you alright?"

"Get off me!" Sherlock cried as he tried to crawl away. He batted at the man's hands, and he sat up as the man sat back on his heels, deepened his voice to call the dogs to heel.

"Tristan, Belvedere, Galahad!" he cried, and they sat on their haunches and waited as the man rose to his feet.

Sherlock shielded his eyes to get a better view. The man had a round face with gold-rimmed glasses. He was wearing brown leather boots and a khaki colored suit that now had grass stains on the knees. He was broad-shouldered and thin-waisted and at least twenty pounds heavier than Sherlock who, although he had grown in height, had yet to grow into his shoulders.

The man reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet. Sherlock stood on one leg, wincing as the pain radiated up his leg. "Can you walk?" the man asked. Sherlock turned to him and noticed that they were almost the same height. The man's eyes were a bright brown, like the semi-precious stone tiger's eye.

Sherlock looked down at his leg. The pain hit him as he tried to walk, and he almost fell. A large arm grabbed him, and before he knew it, he was in the man's arms.

"Hey! What?" Sherlock called out panicked. He'd been picked up before, but nothing good had ever come of it.

"Calm down, Shhhh there mate. I'm only going to take you somewhere where we can get that leg treated." The man had deepened his voice as he had done to tame his dogs, and strangely enough, it worked on Sherlock as well. He looked up into the man's eyes and stilled letting him carry him away.

Sometime he had handed his dog's leashes off to someone else. Sherlock didn't have a clear memory of it. He only remembered blue sky behind golden hair, and being carried by firm, strong, arms across the campus and into a building where a first aider cleaned and then bandaged his ankle. He then was taken to see a doctor who said that he had sprained his ankle and should stay off it for at least a week. He was issued some crutches and released to hobble out of the building only to see the golden-haired man waiting outside for him.

He frowned and started to walk past him when the man stepped forward.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, no thanks to you," Sherlock said. "It was your tackle that twisted my ankle. I'll be on these crutches for the next week."

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't let you harm my dog."

"Yet you had no compunction to letting your dog harm me."

"Tristan isn't usually like that. But you walked right onto his leash."

"So it's my fault that you twisted my ankle?"

"Yes, I mean, no, I mean...Let me make it up to you."

Sherlock stopped then and looked into the man's tiger bright eyes. "How?"

"At least let me walk you back to your flat."

"I live on campus."

"Good, then it won't be a long walk." Then the man smiled, and his face transformed into something more joyous than the sun. Sherlock was struck dumb. The man held out his large hand and said, "I'm Victor, by the way. Victor Trevor. And you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned away and Victor followed him until they stood outside his house. "Thank you for your concern, Mr Trevor, but I can make it the rest of the way to my room on my own."

"Good, I'm glad."

They stood there for a moment, Sherlock on his crutches and Victor smiling with his hands in his pockets, until Sherlock tore himself away and began to work his way up the front steps. He reached out, but before he could figure out a way to hold both his crutch and the door handle, Victor had opened the door for him.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're very welcome," Victor said smiling, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock jerked straight and stared at the man before nodding his head, and hobbling inside, listening for following footsteps as the door closed behind him. He turned then and went to the window, peeking out to see a blond head weaving through the crowds of students as he passed back the way that they had come.

* * *

Sherlock woke the next morning to find that his leg felt stiff. He looked down at his ankle then, and remembered the previous day. He didn't know what to think of it all. He had missed his classes. He would have to make up the work today. He sat up and touched his ankle. It felt as numb as a rock.

He looked at the clock to find that it was still early. If he hurried, he could eat and leave before Sebastian and his followers came down for breakfast. He hopped to the bathroom, but everything took much longer to do, so that when he did come down the stairs with his crutches, they were already at the table waiting.

"What happened, Girly Shirly?" Sebastian asked. "Did someone break your leg? That's what you get for putting your foot in your mouth one too many times?"

Sherlock glared down at him. "At least it's only my foot in my mouth and not the barman's cock like you had in yours last Thursday."

"Shut it!"Sebastian said rising to his feet.

"And the Thursday before that," Sherlock added hobbling away with a smirk at Sebastian's blush and the shocked faces of his friends. He pushed his way out of the front door. Skipping breakfast was a small price to pay to avoid being in their company for another minute.

As he carefully lowered himself down the front steps. He looked up and saw a familiar smiling face. Victor was waiting for him. "Good Morning, Sherlock. Are you feeling well?"

Sherlock continued his way down the stairs and then walked toward the man. "Why are you here?"

"I told you I'd see you tomorrow."

"I remember, but why?"

"I want to make it up to you. It was my fault that your ankle got hurt. I thought that I'd check on you. See that you're getting along alright."

"I'm fine." Then belatedly he said, "Thank you."

The man beamed and Sherlock turned to stare at him again. He was an upperclassman by the pin on his collar, and an only child by the cut of his clothes. He wasn't what one would call rich, but his parents were well enough off to send him to school here. Parents? no a single parent, most likely father.

No stains on his shoes, so not in the laboratory sciences, and he didn't seem like he was in politics.

"Classics?" Sherlock asked.

"Excuse me?"

"Is it classics or perhaps Art that's your field of study."

"Neither, it's Modern Languages."

"Ah, I should have guessed by your clothes. I noticed it when I first saw you. You're British, but the cut of your clothes isn't. You took a gap year and traveled. That coat is from India isn't it."

The man laughed, and his voice bounced off of the stone walls of the neighboring buildings. "You're a clever one. Fancy getting to know each other better over a pot of tea?"

Sherlock's eyes darted in the direction of the lab. He had work there, but he had missed breakfast, and this man was, apparently, buying. Plus, he was interesting. He was very interesting, and Sherlock was interested. Sherlock jerked up, standing stiffly straight. He was shocked. In all of the years that he had been away from home, all of the years that he had been forced to socialize with boys who had hated him, he had never found even one of them interesting, but this man interested him. He wanted to forget classes and spend the day with this man listening to his entire life story from the beginning. It was an odd sensation that he felt, a kind of warmth pooling in his abdomen. He had never felt it before. The man raised an eyebrow in question, and Sherlock frowned down at his feet. Then he looked at the man and said.

"Fine. Lead the way."

The man's grin was incandescent. He patted Sherlock hard between his shoulder blades, almost making him fall, before he led him across the pavement.


	2. Tea for two

That evening in the laboratory, Sherlock stood in front of his glass apparatus and set up a titration. He adjusted the valve to let the liquid slowly drip into the beaker as he waited for the solution to turn pink. He soon got bored watching the steady drip, drip, drip of the base falling into the beaker and his mind wandered.

The tea shop was not far from the University grounds. It was a bustling place filled with office workers grabbing a quick bite of breakfast, as well as students taking a more leisurely one. Victor walked to the kitchen door and caught the chef's eye. He came out from behind his hot stove wearing a white apron and an orange turban and they chatted in what Sherlock suspected was Punjabi before the man showed them to a quiet table near the fireplace. A hot pot of tea was set there, and Sherlock lowered himself into a plush armchair laying the crutches down beside him out of the feet of the passing patrons. He looked up into brown eyes, bright and shining with mirth.

"Do you always know the owners of the restaurants that you go to?"

"Usually," Victor said. "You get much better service that way."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "I was joking, I didn't expect that you... that is... You seem to get along with people so well. How? How do you do it?"

Victor laughed. His deep voice bouncing off of the stone of the fireplace. "So you have trouble getting along with people, do you? It's your frowning face that does it. You should smile more."

Sherlock remembered Sebastian's angry stare. "I don't think that smiling would make any difference in my case."

"Oh I don't know. I think that your face would look glorious with a smile on it. Can you give me one now?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, "What?"

"Give us a smile will you?" Sherlock frowned and turned his face away making Victor laugh even louder. "I'll get that smile from you one day. Consider that a promise. "

Sherlock shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with Victor's familiarity, but also a bit excited about the possibility of anyone devoting any time at all to considering his happiness. "I just meant that ... does it make it easier to get things from people if you speak to them in a foreign language?"

"The first thing that you need to learn is that there are no 'foreign' languages. There are only different languages. They're always native to the person who speaks them. People get lonely when they move away from home. Everyone is alien. No one talks the right way. So when they find someone who speaks in a way familiar to them, it's like they've met a long lost family member. I'm good with languages. I always have been. I find that it serves me well."

"So you learned Punjabi on your gap year in India, did you?"

"No, I already knew Punjabi by then as well as Dogri and Hindi. I still have trouble with the written alphabet, but I can always ask for help with signs if I get lost."

"But, I thought that you were British? Are you from abroad?"

"Heaven's no. I'm from Norfolk!"

"I don't hear an accent."

Victor smiled. "Thank you. I try not to sound too strange when I'm talking to people, especially people that I like."

Sherlock thought, _'So you like me?_' but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He scowled instead. Victor poured a cup for Sherlock and then one for himself. He sat back and sipped smiling across the steam at Sherlock as if he could see the unspoken thought anyway.

"So tell me Sherlock, what is it that you're good at?"

Sherlock looked down as he poured milk and sugar into his tea cup. When he looked back, Victor's eyes were still on him. He swallowed. "I'm good at chemistry, and problem solving, and reading people's past from their clothes and mannerisms and such. It's a game that my brother and I used to play."

"Well, what do you see when you read me?"

"People don't usually like me to do it. It's considered rude."

"But I'm asking. I won't get offended, I promise."

Sherlock put down his cup untasted and he leaned forward to look at Victor. His shoes today were brown leather, bespoke, a smaller brand, not trendy but with an excellent reputation. His clothes were store bought, but of a high quality, and they appeared to be altered for him as well. There was a bit of vanity to the man, but modesty too, if that made any sense. From a first glance, he appeared no different from anyone else on the street, but on close examination it was evident that he had thought carefully about each item. Sherlock tilted his head, and spoke.

"You're a thoughtful man, detailed. You like quality over quantity. You prefer one on one interactions, the intimate rather than the extrovert. You have very many acquaintances, but not many close friends. No girlfriend, no boyfriend. You are always alone. Your watch, a gift from your father. You are very close to him. You are his only child. Your mother must have died when you were very young. You like outdoor activities like hiking and riding, but not group sports like rowing or polo. You are proud of your accomplishments, but your travel has isolated you from others your own age. Even as you try to fit in with everyone that you meet, you are still always the stranger, the outsider. You put on a show for everyone, even yourself, but in truth you are compensating for the home that you felt that you lost so long ago when your mother died." Sherlock stopped when he noticed the smile fall from Victor's face. "I've offended you," he said.

Victor raised the cup again and smiled before taking another sip. "No. Actually, Sherlock, I find you adorable. That's quite the skill that you have there. With a glance you show that you know me almost better than I know myself. I'm glad that I met you, Sherlock. I'd like to know you better, unfortunately now is not the time. He drank down the rest of his cup and rose to his feet. Sherlock tried to rise, but Victor motioned for him to stay seated. "No, Sherlock. I promised you breakfast and I'll get it for you. Geeti will get you anything you want. The bill's already arranged. Stay here as long as you like. I'll come by to see you tomorrow." And with a squeeze of Sherlock's shoulder, he was gone.

Sherlock looked up to see the liquid in the beaker already a deep pink. He had missed the point where the color had changed. He would have to start all over again. He closed the valve, and then poured the liquid in the beaker down the sink, opening the water tap wide to dilute it. He watched as the pink liquid swirled in the basin like his distracted thoughts unable to find rest.


	3. Three dogs, a flat, and a mat

The next morning, Sherlock walked out of his dorm with a smile on his face that slowly faded away as he saw no sign of Victor Trevor. He waited outside of the dorm for half an hour before rushing off to his first class. He had thought that Victor would meet him again in the morning as he had before. He had said as much, and Sherlock had assumed...

But that was always the problem, wasn't it? Assuming that people could be trusted to do what they said. Most people weren't honest. They tailored their story to put themselves in a favorable light. People didn't like to hear the truth about themselves. He had seen that over and over. Victor was no different. The first thing that he had done after Sherlock analyzed him was to flee. He had said that he wasn't offended, but that was only his way of being polite.

In truth, Sherlock's expectations about University had not lived up to his wishes. He had imagined a place where everyone was as excited about learning as he was. Instead, most people were there to meet the right people, or to please their parents, or to find a mate.

But Victor was different. He had thought that perhaps... but no. Victor only wanted to make up for the hurt that his dog had caused. He had paid for breakfast. That was fair enough. Sherlock needed to accept the fact that he would probably never see Victor Trevor again.

Sherlock pulled a notebook out of his bag and wrote out the date and the heading before biting his eraser distractedly.  
"He had a very nice smile. He smiled at me, as if I were...I don't know, a friend. It might have been nice to have a friend." Sherlock thought only to sit up when the lecturer came into the room.

Having resigned himself to never seeing Victor again, Sherlock was surprised when he turned a corner to find himself face to face with three bull terriers. He recognized them immediately, even though they seemed to be much smaller than his memory had painted them. Victor tugged on their leashes and they sat on their haunches waiting as he walked around to touch Sherlock's left arm.

"Put your hand out and let them sniff you." Victor said. "Once they learn who you are, they'll know that you're their friend."

"But I'm not their friend," Sherlock said. "That one bit me rather hard on the ankle two days ago."

"Come now. It's not gentlemanly to hold a grudge. Here put your arm around my shoulder, and let me hold your crutches. That's right, reach out your hand."

Sherlock let Victor take his crutches. He stood on one foot while the man placed an arm around his waist and squeezed him to his side to steady him as they bent down over the first of the little beasties. The dog snuffled him with its nose, and then began licking his fingers. The others moved forward to do the same. Sherlock would have found it disgusting if it were not for the fact that he was distracted.

Sherlock was not a demonstrative man. His family did not hug. For Holmes men, standing within two feet of each other was the height of intimacy, thus despite being held over a cluster of slobbering dogs, Sherlock was almost entirely focused on the man at his side. He had him literally and emotionally off balance.

Victor laughed, and the rumble of his chest traveled through Sherlock. His fingers grabbed at Sherlock's hips as he pulled him back to standing, passing back his crutches and stepping away.

"See? Now it's all sorted. Wonderful. Are you up for a walk? We can stop by my flat and drop off the dogs. Then I'll take you out for a proper dinner before getting you home again."

It took all of Sherlock's will simply to nod. He was so busy trying to catalog what was happening to him, that he didn't know what to say. Victor turned and led the dogs down the path leaving Sherlock to follow behind.

They walked off of campus, and after a few blocks, they turned down a side alley and behind a row of shops to stop in front of a short yellow door. The dogs jumped and barked as Victor searched for his key. Sherlock could see the steeple of the church over the tops of the buildings. When he looked back, Victor was kneeling down to unfasten the dogs leashes. They rushed inside barking all the while. Victor rose to his feet then, and held the door open for Sherlock. Once inside, Victor clasped his hands and turned to face him.

"I need to feed them now. It will only take a moment, then we can go" he said walking toward the kitchen with a host of excited dogs at his heels. Sherlock took the opportunity to look around his flat. It was painted a tasteful beige color with Norse pine shelving filled with knickknacks from all around the world. Sherlock turned slowly on his crutches trying to take in all of it. On the shelves their were:

A pair of Thai dolls in fuchsia dresses with golden hats.  
A South American guiro next to a set of Chilean pan pipes.  
An African drum covered in what looked like monkey skin.  
A gourd covered with sea shells.  
A tiny model of a dutch merchant ship.  
A row of painted Russian dolls  
A fur and metal mongolian hat.  
On the wall, over a much loved dark colored couch hung a Japanese watercolor scroll showing a cluster of trees in front of a cloud covered Mount Fuji.

Sherlock felt a prickle on his shoulder, and then turned to find Victor Trevor watching him.  
"Do you like it? The artist had a little shop near a hotspring in Hokkaido. Most people assume that it's Mt Fuji, but it's really a drawing of Mt Yotei. There's an excellent Japanese restaurant a few blocks over. We should go there. Do you like Japanese food, Sherlock?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I don't like the painting, but I'm willing to try new things."

"I will hold you to that," Victor said putting a hand on his shoulder before striding forward to open the door. He growled at his dogs to stay while Sherlock maneuvered himself outside on his crutches. He should have felt fatigued with all of this hopping around, but he was energized in a way that he hadn't been for weeks.

When they entered the restaurant, the woman moved to seat them at a table, but Victor whispered something to her in Japanese and her entire expression changed. She stood taller and bowed before taking them to the back of the restaurant. She then lowered herself to her knees and pulled aside a screen to reveal a tasteful room with a low table floored in tatami mats. Victor toed off his shoes and then turned, a worried expression on his face.

"Sorry, "Victor said. "I didn't think about the crutches. Do you want to sit at a regular table?"

"I'll be fine." Sherlock said shaking off his shoes. He placed his backpack down, then he lowered himself to his knees, leaving the crutches outside the door. The woman nodded and took them from him promising to return them when he was done.

Sherlock crawled forward awkwardly and then sat on a pillow, while Victor gracefully lowered himself down into his seat. Sherlock straightened mimicking Victor, but his ankle hurt when he tried to sit on it, so he put his leg to the side, and sat as straight as he could.

"I'm sorry. We could still move if you..."

"No!" Sherlock said wondering if this was a joke, or a test.

Victor smiled, "Good. Then I'll try to make it worth your coming." He spoke again to the waitress who left the room with a bow, only to return a moment later with a small white teapot painted with a green maple leaf. She left the room then, lowering herself to her knees again and sliding the screen shut so that they were alone in the mat covered room. There were scrolls on the walls of this room as well. They were much larger than Victor's had been, and were embellished with seals of red and gold leaf. He glanced at a drawing of a great wave only to notice the image of a tiny boat dwarfed beneath it. When he turned back, he noticed Victor smiling at him. "You like this place? I take it you've never been to Japan."

Sherlock turned to stare at Victor, who looked back curiously. "No," Sherlock said. "My parents travel from time to time to conferences and such, but they usually leave my brother and I in school when they do. Other than several winters spent in France with my grandmother, I've rarely been outside of Britain.

_"Est-ce que ta grand-mère habite en France?"_  
_" Oui,"_  
_"Magnifique! Parlez français?"_  
_"Bien sûr"_

Victor laughed then long and heartily. The waitress opened the screen and peeked at the two of them before closing it again.

"That's wonderful. You can help me practice my French."  
"If you want," Sherlock said, "But only if you teach me some of the languages that you know."  
Victor clapped his hands in excitement. "Glorious! I will indeed. But let's have a cup of this excellent tea before it gets cold."

Victor leaned over and poured Sherlock a cup of tea that was colored a deep spring green just as the door opened and the woman brought them a plate of raw fish that looked like flowers.

That evening, as Sherlock lay in his bed his foot propped up against the wall, he tried to organize everything that he had seen in his thoughts. Victor's French was so unlike that of his mémère. Even so, there was something about talking in French that was comforting, and he found himself feeling relaxed around Victor in a way that he couldn't remember feeling since his childhood. He found himself smiling, despite himself. Then someone pounded on the wall and Sherlock's frown returned.


	4. Pleasure purchased with a little pain

Sherlock woke to a throbbing pain in his ankle. He opened his eyes and stared at it. He didn't understand how the evidence of his senses were so contradictory. His eyes told him that there was only a slight swelling around his ankle, while his senses told him that his foot had swollen to the size of a melon. He was barely able to get to the bathroom and back without yelping in a totally inappropriate manner. He certainly was going nowhere today. Luckily it was Saturday, and he only had a few study sessions. He had stopped going to them anyway once he had learned that he knew more about the subjects than the graduate students who were teaching them.

Sherlock plopped back into his bed, and then yelped as it jarred his foot. He lay very still. He looked around the room. White walls. The room was boring. Pain was boring. He looked across the room at his laptop. He could have looked up things on the internet if it had been working. Unfortunately, Sherlock had cut the power cord while practicing a knife trick. The new cord was on order, but it wasn't expected until Tuesday. The knife was currently lodged in the ceiling over the door. Sherlock kept it there in case someone tried to attack him one day.

He winced as his motion jarred his ankle again. Then he looked at the phone. There had been an old-fashioned plastic landline attached to the wall by his bed when he had first arrived, but after a chat with Mycroft, it had ended up tossed on the floor under the window. Mycroft had wanted him to come home on the weekends to visit mother. He had wanted to remain in Cambridge to study.

Mycroft always did have the keys to get inside of Sherlock's mind. He was a master manipulator, but University was important, so he had tossed it away before he could hear anything else that might change his mind. He could call Mycroft now. He would send help if he asked, but what kind of help would he send? He'd probably use this injury as an excuse to ship him back home and get his own way in the end, the smug bastard. Sherlock sighed and lay back down.

White ceiling. It was boring being in his room all alone. He could read his textbooks, but he had finished reading through all of them by the first week. He had planned to make detailed notes from some of the sections. Now might be the time. He bent over the edge of the bed and put his fingers under the thick textbook, but when he tried to lift it, his ankle twisted, and he rolled back with a strangled cry. He didn't want to make a noise loud enough that Sebastian and his confidants would hear. The knife was much too far away for him to reach in this state.

Sherlock was considering hypnosis to make the time pass faster when there was a brief knock and the door opened. Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and turned to see Victor coming in through the door.

"Good Morning, Sherlock. I didn't see you outside, and so I asked and someone showed me up to your room. I hope that I haven't disturbed your sleep. I can come back later if it's more convenient."

"No! That is Yes, Come in."

Victor closed the door and turned on the light. "It's so dark in here. You live in a cave."

Sherlock noticed then the state of the room. There were clothes strewn on the floor. A phone under the window. A diagram of benzene scrawled in pencil on the wall beside the mirror. Then he realized that he was lying on the bed in his pajamas with his pants showing through the slit in his pajama bottoms. He pulled the blanket over his chest and lay back down.

Victor looked down at him, his deep, dark eyes passing from his chest to his face. "Is everything alright? You seem... nervous."

"I'm fine," Sherlock said clutching the blanket in one hand while he sat up. He cried out.

Victor rushed forward, concern on his face. He reached out and touched Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock pulled back. Touching him at that time was too intimate, and Victor was too much, too big, too bright, and too kind, while Sherlock was gaunt and ugly with his pants poking out. Victor pulled back.

"Am I disturbing you. I didn't mean to wake you. I could leave."

"No," Sherlock said only realizing after he had said it that he had unconsciously grabbed Victor's wrist. "It's just... my ankle hurts. It's swollen."

Victor threw the covers back and looked at Sherlock's leg, while Sherlock reached down and discretely straightened his pajamas. Victor pushed against the ankle briefly, and Sherlock sucked in a breath. Victor's eyes locked on his face.

"It's pretty swollen. You must have overexerted yourself yesterday. Sorry. My fault, I'm afraid."

"How could it be your fault?"

Victor looked sad, and Sherlock suddenly realized that he would do almost anything to wipe the frown off of that face. "Back in a moment," Victor said. Then he walked out of the room quietly shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock stared at the closed door. Where had he gone? To the bathroom? Sherlock waited, and waited. After fifteen minutes, he realized that Victor had probably left the dorm entirely. But why was this surprising? What else had he expected him to do? Sherlock lay back and turned his head to the wall ignoring the jolt of pain in his ankle as he turned. He had just about resolved to spend the entire day staring at the boring white wall near his bed, when the door opened and Victor returned carrying a tray and a plastic bag full of ice. The tray was full of food and drink and Victor placed it down on the bedside cabinet. Then he took a pillow from the other bed and propped up Sherlock's foot. He lay a dish towel down over it, and then covered it with a plastic bag full of ice. The cold felt jarring at first, and then it felt...wonderful. Sherlock let out a large sigh, and Victor smiled. His smile was almost as big a shock as the ice. Sherlock stared up at him. The morning light shone through his golden hair, and the dust motes framed his head like a halo. It was as if, undeserving as he was, someone had sent him an angel to care for him. Sherlock immediately clamped down on that oddly superstitious thought, but he couldn't make himself turn away. He felt as if he could stare at Victor for hours. He tried to imagine wings on his back, but they fell away when Victor laughed a moment later. No angel would have that deep of a laugh.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Your face. You looked so shocked and surprised. Your mouth was actually hanging open. I mean, Sherlock, It's only ice. Haven't you ever iced a sprain before?"

"I...no." Sherlock said, and Victor laughed again. Sherlock frowned in response,"I'm in pain, and you're laughing. You're easily amused."

"No, I'm not. It's just that I find you very amusing. Here, have some orange juice. Nothing like a bit of vitamin C to get a man back on his feet."

Sherlock propped himself on one elbow and reached out for the glass, but Victor stopped him. He spent the next few minutes rearranging pillows and sheets before reaching his arms under Sherlock's knees and back and lifting him. He propped him up against the pillows and readjusted the ice on his ankle before laying down a blanket, and placing the tray on top of Sherlock's knees.

Sherlock watched in awe. He wondered how Victor did it. How did he always seem to exude such confidence? Why was it that he seemed to be so much a man while Sherlock still felt like a little boy? He motioned for Sherlock to eat, and Sherlock ate. He hardly glanced at the food. How could he when there was a someone in the room so much more worthy of his attention. At one point he stopped eating entirely to stare at the dark at the base of his hair.

"You dye your hair!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Yes." Victor said with a smirk, "Is that a revelation worth an exclamation?"

"I thought that you were blond. Your eyebrows are pale. Oh! you dyed those too. I should have known from the flaking of the skin on your forehead. Why did you dye your hair? What color is it naturally?"

Victor laughed again. "My hair is brown. Sometimes a bit red. I bleached it when I visited Sweden last summer. I liked the look, so I kept it. Is it important?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said. Of course it was important. Everything about Victor was important. Since they had met, Victor had been steadily rising on his list of things to pay attention to. He was taking up an ever increasing volume of Sherlock's mind palace, but he didn't want Victor to know that. "That is, I didn't pick it up when I analyzed you that first day. I need to improve my ability to observe. I always seem to miss something on the first pass."

"Really, Sherlock. Most people don't try to know everything about another person the first time that they meet them. Most people take their time learning about each other. It's part of the pleasure of making friends."

"Pleasure?"

"Oh right, you have trouble with friends. And our meeting was hardly typical. Not a good example at all. Well then, let me teach you on how it's done. Usually you begin with 'hello' and your name. Hello, my name is Victor Trevor. Pleasure to meet you." Victor reached out his hand, and Sherlock almost overturned his juice glass in his haste to take it. Victor giggled and then moved the tray onto the table before grabbing sherlock's slender fingers in his firm grasp. "Now you," he said with a nod.

"Hello, I'm Sherlock."

"I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Sherlock. I hope that we'll become the best of friends."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he possibly say to answer such a statement. He had never really had a friend before. The best of friends? He had heard of best friends, but it was such a childish statement. Surely adults didn't have best friends.

Victor dropped his hand and then turned away to pull the desk chair over to the bedside before continuing. "In Japan they have a special word for it, _'hajimemashite'_, first meeting. It's a little inaccurate now since we've already met, but as an exercise it would be useful.

_'Hajimemashite. Victor Trevor desu.'_ " He said with a slight bow from the waist. "Now you."

They passed the time this way with Victor teaching Sherlock how to meet people in more than a dozen languages and not one moment of it was boring. Victor checked his watch and exclaimed at the time.

"I must be off. You stay off your feet, and I'm sure that the swelling will have gone down by tomorrow. I'll come by, but it won't be till late as I have church. I'll send Thomas back with more ice for your ankle."

"Thomas? Who's Thomas?"

"He lives across the hall from you? Seriously Sherlock, you should at least learn the names of your neighbors. Well, I'm off. Take care." And with a wave of his hand and a smile, he was out of the door.

Sherlock fell back against the wall with a sigh. He ran the past few hour through his mind and had not yet got halfway through reviewing it, when Thomas knocked on the door and passed him another bag of ice. He sat in the room alone for the rest of the day, and night and wasn't bored at all.


	5. Revelations and endings

Sunday morning Sherlock woke to find his ankle quite recovered. He rose to his feet and dressed heading straight for the lab. Organic Chemistry in practice was not the same as it was on paper. When Sherlock had learned that you could transform almost any organic molecule into almost any other one if you knew the right procedures to use, he had become giddy with excitement. In practice, however, it was much harder, longer, and dirtier to do than it was on paper. Also, there was the problem of yields. You never got out as much product out as the reactants you put in. That was why after having worked through a long series of steps that had taken him all morning to do, Sherlock had only a tiny crust of white powder to show for it.

He carefully placed the powder into a small glass bottle, sealed it, and labeled it. Then he washed his hands, put on his coat, and left the lab to stretch his legs for a bit. He didn't have a goal in mind when he started walking, but before long, he found himself in a familiar alley. He looked at the yellow door. He touched it, hesitant at first. Then he knocked, and heard the sound of dogs barking but even after several minutes had passed, no one came to answer it.

Sherlock looked around for a window to glance through, but there were none in sight. The room inside had been light, but he remembered now. There had been skylights. He looked up, but with his ankle as it was, he wasn't going to be climbing onto any rooftops today. He spied the church tower, then he turned back down the alley and made his way through the streets toward it.

The church services were over when he arrived. He looked through the door, but he didn't want to enter. Not on his crutches where he couldn't easily get away from the friendly attention and patter that was sure to be heaped on him inside. He walked around the church listening to the sound of the organ through the stained glass windows. After a few moments, he turned away and hobbled on his crutches back to the halls.

Victor came that evening just before dinner with takeout from a Middle Eastern restaurant, and a book on modern Hindi. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed eating a pita with hummus. "Are you trying to fatten me up like the witch in Hansel and Gretel?"

"Well someone has to," he said. "You're skin and bones as it is."

"Well, I'm not going to let you eat me," he said. Then he thought of what he had said and what other meanings it might have, and started to blush. He bowed his head to hide it. Then he coughed, reaching his hand out to get a drink of water in the hopes that Victor would only think that he had tasted something hot. Victor didn't seem to notice.

"So what have you been doing today?" Victor asked.

"Organic Chemistry," Sherlock said. "My yields were too low."

"Well that happens. Sometimes I swear that half of it evaporates before you can get anything out. No wonder Chemists have the shortest life span of all scientists, breathing in all of those solvents. That, and the explosions, of course."

Sherlock sat forward in his seat. "You've taken Organic Chemistry?"

"Yes. I took a course while an exchange student in Berlin. I'd help, but I must warn you that I only know how to write equations in German."

Sherlock smiled.

"There it is," Victor said. "I've been waiting for that smile. Do you have a camera? I want to take a picture."

Sherlock frowned and hid behind his pita bread, but his eyes were still smiling.

Victor laughed and pointed at him. It was only then that Sherlock realized that he was acting very strangely. Around Victor he blushed and smiled and felt... strange. It was odd. Was this what friendship felt like? No wonder so many people did it. It felt wonderful to have Victor in the room with him, laughing, eating, even just existing.

Victor came to visit him every day. He walked beside him as he hobbled on his crutches to the doctor's office, and he sat in the waiting area as they removed his bandages, and Sherlock took his first tentative steps. Victor walked Sherlock back to his dorm, and they stood outside chatting about nothing in particular until Victor said. "Well, I'm glad that you're better. So sorry about my dog biting you. Well, to be honest, I'm glad. If he hadn't bit you, I probably never would have met you, and I'm happy to have met you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's happiness turned to panic as he realized that Victor was about to go. There was an awful tone of finality in his voice that made Sherlock feel desperate.

"Well then. I guess that's that. Goodbye..."

"Wait!" Sherlock yelled. "You've treated me all of this time. Let me take you out to dinner for once."

Victor turned to stare at him and tilted his head, "Are you sure you should be walking on that ankle so soon?"

"I'm fine. Come, I've got a place in mind."

Sherlock started to walk toward the edge of campus, and Victor followed. Sherlock was a rolling pool of panic. He didn't have any place in mind. He just wanted to find a way to stay one more moment with Victor. In his mind, these last few days were huge. They had overshadowed most of the rest of the year in importance, even though the most interesting thing they had done was chat about languages. Sherlock didn't understand his emotions. It felt as if letting Victor walk away now was tantamount to letting the sun go out. He absolutely must prevent that from happening.

They were on the street, weaving through the crowds when Sherlock spied a Chinese restaurant. He reached out for the handle, only to be stopped by Victor's hand on his wrist.

"Not here."

"What?" Sherlock said looking into his dark eyes.

"Their food is not good. Too greasy."

"Have you eaten here before?"

"No, never."

"Then how do you know?"

Right then someone walked out of the door opening it wide. "Look at the lower third of the door handle," Victor said.

Sherlock stared at the handle. It was a bronze handle covered with dark stains from many fingerprints overlapping. The door swung shut then, and Sherlock looked up at Victor. "I see the handle. What about it?"

"Grease stains," Victor said.

"They use too much oil when they chow the food. The oil droplets act like an aerosol and float in the air. Besides the thick smell that makes it hard to taste the food, it ends up coating the surface of everything in the restaurant. It gets on people's hands, and they leave greasy marks on the door. Always a bad sign. A good Chinese restaurant will have a clean handle. Not only does it mean that they clean the door everyday, but they chow the food lightly so that the natural flavors come out. The essence of Chinese cooking is to allow each element to have it's own distinct taste, not to make it all taste like soy. I'm afraid most Chinese food in Britain is bloody awful. You should let me take you to Hong Kong. The food is excellent there."

"Okay," Sherlock said realizing only then that he would let Victor take him anywhere. They continued walking down the street side by side. Sherlock's ankle twinged a little but he ignored it. He was overwhelmed again, as he had been when Victor had grabbed him around the waist. It was odd as they were nowhere near touching now, walking down the street in their coats and gloves. Stepping apart to let people pass between, and yet, Sherlock was aware of Victor's every movement, spying him out of the corner of his eye. He had no idea where he was going, and he really didn't care as long as Victor stayed with him. They ended up in a park. Victor sat down on a bench, and Sherlock sat beside him realizing only then how much his leg still hurt. He rubbed his ankle leaning over in his chair so that his shoulder bumped Victor's. Then he lowered his leg, but he kept leaning on Victor, and they stayed that way sitting in silence as the sky dimmed and the lamplight grew brighter around them.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to come to my flat? I have some albums that you might be interested in listening to. I've collected music from all over, and it would give you a chance to rest your ankle."

"Yes, good. I'd like that."

They walked to his flat without saying another word. He unlocked the door as the dogs barked excitedly, and then he pitched his voice high as he greeted each dog by name. Sherlock sat on the comfortable old couch and waited as he rushed off to feed the dogs. Sherlock felt a sharp excitement in his abdomen. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew that he wanted something, and he wanted it from Victor.

Victor closed the door leaving the dogs in the other part of the flat, and then he bent down and picked up a vinyl record placing it on a record player. A saxophone bellowed, and then a French woman's voice rose in the room singing a song of sadness and longing. There was a chair across the room. Sherlock prayed that Victor would not sit in it, even to the point of wanting the dogs back in the room so that one of them could sit there instead. Victor came forward, and sat beside Sherlock on the couch. He let out a breath in thanks.

Victor crossed his legs, and looked away. Sherlock found himself leaning toward him until their shoulders were touching again. He turned his head toward the back of Victor's head. He wanted... It didn't make any sense. He could smell Victor's cologne. He tried to make out the ingredients that made it up: sandalwood, cinnamon, musk, perhaps a bit of vanilla. If he could taste it, maybe he could tell for sure. He looked at Victor's neck. It was tanned and there was a mole right where it joined his shoulder. Then Victor turned his head, and they were staring into each other's eyes. Victor's eyes, brown like a tiger. Sherlock leaned forward.

"I don't," Victor said.

Sherlock froze. "You don't what?"

"I don't...anything."

"I don't understand."

"You said it before. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Ever."

"Why not? I can't imagine you've never been asked."

"Of course I have, but... I'm sorry."

Sherlock leaned away, "Oh! You've got the wrong idea. I didn't mean to..." And then he started to blush furiously. He closed his eyes and bowed his head as Victor rose to his feet.

"I've got another song that I think you'll like better."

He removed the record and fumbled around on the shelf before putting on one in Greek. It was a happy song with lots of hand clapping. Sherlock had never felt more rejected in his life. He tried to look casual, but he couldn't help himself. It was as if that tingling in his abdomen had turned into an anvil made of lead. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe. He had to hold himself very tightly to keep from crying. He breathed in through his nose in small abrupt bursts.

Victor stopped the music then, and reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder, but he jerked away from his touch. "I'm sorry," Victor said, and then walked across to sit down in the chair.

"I'm sorry. I suppose that I should have made it clear when we first met, but you knew so much about me already that I thought...well. It doesn't matter, but I guess that I should explain myself more fully. It's not you, Sherlock. This has nothing to do with you. It's all about me. Let me tell you a bit about myself. No wait, let me show you."

Victor rose to his feet again and put on a record. An organ played and then a boy's voice high and pure rose up to fill the room. Sherlock turned to listen. A choir of boys joined him in chorus, but the single voice stood out above the rest. It was arresting and beautiful. Sherlock was captivated. Victor handed Sherlock the album cover. He looked at the title.

Songs of Faith by the boys of King's college Cambridge.

soloist _Victor Trevor_

"So this was you?" Sherlock exclaimed. Victor nodded.

"My father is a justice of the peace in a small place, you wouldn't know it. Mother made him promise to keep taking me to church, and so he did, faithfully every Sunday. I sang in the children's choir there, til I was scouted and offered a scholarship to sing here in Cambridge. Father couldn't move, but he felt that my mother would have wanted me to go, so he let me go away by myself. I was nine years old. It was hard at first to leave my father, but my mother had died not too long before, and I was learning how to deal with separation. I didn't like it, but there were other things to compensate me. Music for one. I love music.

"I threw myself into the study of voice. I put my heart into it. I put my entire soul into it. My world travels began there, when we toured Europe. My father had begun my love of languages by taking me with him when he went to visit the people around town. A number of them were immigrants, and he encouraged me to play with their children, and to make friends. On tour, I learned that there were so many different people and languages out there to learn. The world was too big to learn it all in one lifetime, but I resolved to try.

"When we returned there were stories in the news about some boys who had been abused by the priests that were supposed to be protecting them. You know the type of story. It's common enough. A man with a taste for boys. Nothing like that had happened to me. It wasn't like that at all for us, but there was a lot of scrutiny then, and they decided not to go on any more tours out of the country. We cut back on our schedule, and I returned home to my father, only coming back a few times a year for the Christmas and Easter choirs.

"My father pulled me aside to ask me himself if anything had happened to me while I was away. I assured him that it had not, and that it never would. I told him that I would never have sex with anyone. He laughed, and said that I should never say never, but even as I grew older, even as I lost my voice and went on to other pursuits, my resolve never changed. I don't have a problem with sex _per se_. I don't mind if other people have sex. It's just that for myself, it's not an option. I'm not interested."

"I didn't mean," Sherlock began. "I wasn't asking you to ... to do that. I just wanted..." Sherlock's voice ran out. What had he wanted? To kiss Victor's neck. To kiss his lips. That was a prelude to sex wasn't it? How did he know? He had never been kissed before. "So, does that mean that you've never been interested in anyone ... at all?"

"Have you? I mean ... before tonight."

"No, God no! With someone from school?" Sherlock snorted. "I can hardly bear to talk with them much less ...do that with them."

"I know I'm strange. I know I'm the odd one out. Always the stranger. That's what you said, and it's true. It's much easier to fit in if you're willing to flirt, to date, to kiss. People feel rejected if you aren't attracted to them. They feel even more rejected if you are attracted to them, but refuse to act. I don't want that to happen to us, Sherlock. I like you. I really like you a lot, and I would like...I would wish that we can be friends, good friends, for a long time."

"I would like that as well," Sherlock said astounded by the steadiness in his voice.

Victor rose to his feet. "I suppose that it's about time that I walk you back to your residence hall."

"I don't need you to walk me there," Sherlock said rising to both feet and stomping one. "See? All better." He strode to the door and smiled. "Good night," Sherlock said.

"Good night," Victor replied. "See you again soon."

The warm light from inside Victor's flat speared across the pavement as Sherlock began to walk away. As the door closed, the light narrowed and then vanished along with Sherlock's smile. He staggered a few more paces and then propped himself against the concrete wall. Fat tears falling onto his knees, round, warm circles of damp soaking through his trousers in the dark of evening, as the church bells chimed.


	6. Better to have loved and lost

Victor did not come by to visit Sherlock the next day, or the next day, or the day after that. And eventually, Sherlock learned to live with it. The loss had a strange side effect on him. It imparted a sense of numbness that made the gibes of his dorm mates seem pointless in comparison. When they made fun of him now, he simply ignored them and walked away. They soon lost interest and stopped teasing him at all. Sherlock went to class and came home. He worked in the labs on weekends and ignored his study sessions. As he approached the end of Lent term, he was at the top of all of his classes.

Sherlock's ankle fully recovered, and he exercised it by running around the campus and climbing staircases to relieve some of the restless energy that overtook him. He began reading poetry, which shocked everyone who knew him. If they asked, he said that it was research. It was poetry that taught him that what he had felt for Victor had not been simply friendship. There was another name, a shorter name, for it. His mouth formed involuntarily into an 'O' when he'd realized it while reading a book by Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

_"__I hold it true, whate'er befall;_ _I feel it when I sorrow most;_ _'Tis better to have loved and lost_ _Than never to have loved at all._ "

He didn't know if he agreed with the sentiment or not, but at least he no longer felt like a child. He eventually ended his self imposed isolation and went out to the pub with the other students for a post exams drink. He went out into the alley to smoke a cigarette only to find Sebastian leaning against the wall and crying. A glance was enough to tell that his girlfriend had finally dumped him. Sherlock walked back inside without even landing a cutting remark. A few moments later, Sebastian rushed into the bar, eyes hastily wiped. He must have thought that Sherlock meant to shame him publicly. He stood before him with his fists balled, ready for a fight. Sherlock turned to the bar and ordered him a drink. He pushed it toward him, and watched as Sebastian visibly deflated. "Thank You," he said and took a sip. Sherlock paid for the drink, nodded once, and then left.

Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of going home for Easter break. He didn't want to see Mycroft's smug face, or worse his sympathetic one. He could hear the voice in his mind, "Oh Sherlock, have you finally lost your innocence? Caring is weakness. Haven't I told you that before?"

He arranged to stay in the dorm. Then he called his mother on the phone and made up an excuse, an urgent series of experiments that had to be completed before next term. When the phone rang again a few moments later (Mycroft) he ignored it.

The University was largely empty during the break. Sherlock went for long walks around the grounds studying the architecture, and he resolved to climb to the roof of every one of the campus buildings before the new term started, except for the church, of course.

He had just succeeded at a synthesis cycle where he started with one chemical and transformed it into a dozen others before returning it to the starting material with a shockingly low loss of yield. He had decided to celebrate by finally buying some new strings for his violin, when he saw Victor waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.

He wore a tan coat, and a red scarf. His hair had darkened to brown now, and he stood with his hands in his pockets looking steadfastly up into Sherlock's face.

Sherlock planned to ignore him and walk past. That is what he had resolved to do if he ever saw Victor again. He had decided this as he lay alone in his bedroom clutching his arms tight to his chest. In the face of the Victor's tiger brown eyes, however, he found that he couldn't move, and he couldn't turn away. He just stood there staring down at the man who had broken his heart.

"Hello Sherlock."

"Hello Victor. Is there something you wanted?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"I want you."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. " I don't understand."

"I want you to come with me. Will you come with me? I have something that I want to show you."

Sherlock could hear Mycroft's voice in his head 'Caring is NOT an advantage. Caring is a weakness.'but he shook it away. He was an adult now. He could make his own decisions. "Alright," he said.

He walked down the steps and stood beside Victor, marveling again at how their eyes were at the same level. Why had he remembered Victor as taller? Victor walked away and Sherlock followed. They walked in silence for twenty minutes or so until they found themselves in front of a theater. Victor bought a pair of tickets, and they went inside. The sign was in Latin (_Concilium Constanciense_)but the subtitle, _Die Gegenpäpste_, was in German.

For the size of the theatre, the audience was relatively small. Three professors, two classics, one literature. Five individual students, one a languages major, three medieval studies, the girl at the front had a flyer with her and kept looking over her shoulder at one of the professors, her instructor then. A Catholic priest accompanied by a nun who liked to sneak the communion wine. And two couples. One pair were serious film buffs. The other had just snuck into the theatre to snog. Three couples if he counted Victor and himself. Were they a couple?

The room darkened and the film began. It was in black and white. It was about some schism in the church during the fifteenth century. The titles were in German, but most of the film was in Latin. He could understand the language, but the theological concepts were beyond him. When the movie was over, the priest clapped. The others rose from their seats and slowly filtered out. Most of the students seemed as confused as he was. Victor seemed content. Sherlock followed him out of the theatre and walked with him down the emptying pavement. When they were alone, Victor turned to him.

"Thank You," he said. "I've wanted to see that film for almost a decade. When I heard that it had been restored, I was ecstatic, but I didn't want to see it alone. I wanted to share it with someone. I wanted to be able to talk to someone about it, and I realized that the only person who could possibly appreciate it properly was you. It was selfish of me, I know. Do you mind?"

"Of course not."

"Then let me buy you dinner."

"We'll go Dutch."

"Fine. Great, in fact. You don't mind if I choose the restaurant do you?"

"No. You have excellent taste."

Victor smiled then, "Why, thank you. It's this way."

The streets of Cambridge were quiet in the evening between terms. Victor led them to the little tea shop where he had taken Sherlock the first time. In the evening, there was an entirely different crowd: Intellectuals and couples, individuals wanting a quiet place to read where they wouldn't be alone. Sherlock instinctively walked to the fireplace and sat where they had before.

Victor went over to talk with the owner again, and before long a hot pot of tea was on the table between them. Sherlock stretched out his legs and looked at the fire. Victor sat down in the other chair and played with his hands.

"I wanted to visit you after that night but it seemed ... unwise. I've missed having you around. I had friends, but never really close ones. I had hoped that perhaps you and I, but well...I don't suppose...Thank you for coming tonight."

"How did you know where to find me? I was at the lab."

"I've seen you around, and between terms there aren't as many people. I saw you in passing."

"You followed me?"

"Yes, I guess you could say that. You don't mind?"

"No."

"But Sherlock, I would really like it if we could see each other again sometimes. Maybe the occassional lunch or tea. What do you think?"

"I think that would be fine."

"Good. Good," Victor said nodding. They glanced briefly at each other, but somehow couldn't meet each other's eyes.

They ordered meals, but Sherlock found that he wasn't very hungry. When he went to pay, the proprieter refused to take their money. "It's good to see you two together again." He said winking at them.

"But we're not..." Sherlock began. Victor put his arm on Sherlock's shoulder and led him out of the shop.

As they walked down the street, Victor leaned over and whispered to him, "If someone wants to give you free food, take it graciously. It's an insult not to." He straighten up then and they continued walking down the street. His arm was still around Sherlock's shoulder. Neither of them mentioned it.

When they arrived at Sherlock's dorm, he stepped away from Victor and said goodnight before walking in. Victor stood outside hands in his coat watching until the door swung shut.

Once inside his room, Sherlock crawled on his bed and pulled his knees up tight. He was proud of himself. He had kept his cool. He hadn't wept. He hadn't raged. He had spent the entire evening with Victor and it had been...fine. It had been nice in fact. Sherlock closed his eyes and remembered the feel of Victor's arm around his shoulder. It had been warm. He had felt warm. He had wanted to huddle closer, to wrap his arm around Victor's waist. He had wanted to, but he had not.

When Sherlock remembered Victor's face, there was a warm feeling in his abdomen. He knew what it meant, but he also knew that he had enough willpower to resist what his emotions were telling him to do. If Victor wanted to be friends, then they would be friends. It didn't matter if his heart wanted more as long as he didn't act on it. It was nice being with Victor again, much better than it was without him. Sherlock could take nice if it meant being together again.

Sherlock got ready for bed and turned out the light. He woke with a start in darkness to find himself covered with sweat. He lay back his head and closed his eyes imagining brown eyes boring into his, strong hands gripping onto his shoulders. He rolled over, and imagined the hands on his waist and on his hips. He was bucking into his bed, and crying in his pillow. He arched his back and cried out, then let out a long moan while collapsing back onto the bed.

Just friends. Victor wanted to just be friends. Sherlock's mind might be willing, but his body was not. He still wanted Victor, and he didn't want to be _just_ anything.


	7. The Greek form

_ONE YEAR LATER _

The Instructor had just finished giving the relevant information of this lecture and was now beginning to drone on about one of her pet subjects. Sherlock bounced his eraser on his notebook and his mind began to wander. Lectures were, for the most part, tedious, but they provided a plethora of subject matter to interest his mind. First there was the lecturer herself: Single, untenured, brilliant, overlooked. He had taken this course instead of the one with the Professor of the greater reputation because he knew that that man had got his position largely through connections rather than any brilliance in his part. Dr Arbunkle, on the other hand, had a way of thinking laterally about a problem that Sherlock truly admired. Her papers, although nowhere near as well read and reviewed as others in the field, were starling in their insight. Even so, she seemed likely to pass unrecognized where she was. Sherlock predicted that she would leave in less than five years to some other University who would recognize her talent and give her the tenure that she deserved. She usually had a good twenty minutes of interesting things to say. The rest of the time was wasted on stories of social relevance that bored Sherlock to tears, as if any of his classmates would consider society in making their decisions which mostly appeared to involve where they were going to spend their next minibreak.

Sherlock's phone vibrated, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Under cover of the desk he read the message from Victor and smiled. After class, he went directly to his flat, a private one as he no longer lived in University provided accommodations. This one had its own kitchen and bath as well as a large closet for his clothes. Ever since Victor had introduced him to his tailors, Sherlock had acquired a number of new clothes and shoes. He wiped the water from his hair, and walked down the length of his rack looking for just the right suit. He chose the dove grey because Victor had said the color looked particularly fine with his dark hair.

The shirt he chose was blue silk, almost purple. He never wore a tie. He buttoned it up almost to the top, and then he thought better of it and unbuttoned the second button as well to reveal more of his skin. His shoes were bespoke, made of the softest leather imaginable. He pointed and flexed his toes and the shoe hugged his feet as if it were part of his skin. He smiled. Sherlock shook out his hair, and took one more look in the mirror before going out to meet Victor.

They were going to the Fitzwilliam museum to see an exhibition of rare Greek and Roman sculptures. Victor was waiting for him on the steps. He smiled the moment he saw Sherlock reaching out as he approached to clasp his arm near the elbow. Sherlock held his as well, and his hands slid down the smooth fabric of his suit until their fingers clasped. It had started by accident. An awkward missed greeting that had become a sort of secret hand shake. They fell into step with each other then and walked up the steps falling into the friendly silence of close companions.

The marble sculptures were many different scales, but most were life-sized. The Greek ones in particular were most realistic. Sherlock squatted down to look into the hollow eye holes of a kneeling maiden. He wanted to touch it, but then that wasn't allowed. The grime on a person's hands was enough to corrode the delicate surface. Perhaps if he wore gloves...

"What do you think of them?" Victor asked.

"The clothes aren't realistic," Sherlock replied.

"What do you mean they aren't realistic? How can you tell what people thousands of years ago wore. Mostly we tell by looking at images such as these."

"I'm not saying that they didn't wear robes and togas, I'm just saying that the folds don't fall naturally. Clothes just don't act that way."

"It's art, Sherlock. They aren't meant to be completely representational."

"The nudes are. The proportions are recognizably realistic."

"Yes, that's true for many of them, but this statue of Hekate for example. The folds of her dress radiate out from the center. You couldn't have pleats this perfect on a real person. This is an idealized sculpture. Everything is perfect because it represents something."

"The thirteen months of the year."

"What?"

"The thirteen folds of her dress represent the thirteen moons in a typical year. Hecate is the goddess of the moon."

"I thought that there were twelve months in a year."

"Months yes, moons no. If you consider a lunar cycle to be 28 days then 28 times 13 equals 364 days. One solar rotation is 365.24255 days, therefore...

"Do you have to bring calculations into all this? Can't you just appreciate the statue for what it is?"

"But I am. Do you think that the thirteen folds in the dress were a coincidence? Obviously they were placed there as symbolism which is what you keep telling me that we are here to appreciate. What would you have said about the number of folds?"

"I wouldn't have counted them in the first place."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

Victor had turned, walking toward the smaller statuary when Sherlock noticed raised voices behind them.

Sherlock turned and stared at a woman in a sari who seemed to be having an argument with one of the guards. The guard was trying to take something out of the woman's hand, and she was resisting. Since the guard spoke English, and the woman did not appear to speak any, they had resorted to fighting over the device like children fighting over a toy.

Victor rushed past and lay a finger lightly on the guard's shoulder. He released the device and turned.

"Excuse me, but please stay back. I'm busy talking to this woman," the guard said.

"No," Victor said. "You are busy talking AT this woman. You haven't understood a word that she's said."

"How can I, she's not speaking English."

The woman raised her voice now, a string of angry words directed at the both of them. Victor turned to her and replied in her own language. The woman visibly brightened, then she launched into what was clearly a complaint as she gestured at the guard, holding her device up and then pointing again. Victor nodded listening, then he said something that made the woman smile and calm down. She stood quietly and waited while Victor turned back to the guard.

"What was that about?" the guard said. "The rules are clear, no recording devices are allowed."

"That is not a recording device," Victor said. "That is a tape player. The woman here is from India, she can not read or understand English, but she wanted to see this exhibit, so her son came yesterday. He received permission to record a tape for her explaining what the captions on each of the statues said. She was not recording anything, but listening which is not against any of the rules of this museum."

"Well it looks like a recording device to me."

"You are wrong, but in the interest of peace, I will escort this woman around the exhibits myself. Does that meet with your approval?"

The guard stepped back and nodded. Victor turned to the woman and explained. She very determinedly held up the device and placed it back in her purse, then Victor gestured and the woman turned up her nose passing the guard without another word.

Victor went to the first statue and translated the caption for the woman. Then he turned toward Sherlock and winked, a smile on the edge of his lips. Sherlock stood back and followed them as he led her through the entire exhibit telling her much more than was written on the cards. Sherlock watched his face, so animated!, as he bent down toward the woman listening to her comments and adding some of his own. When they finally did leave some hours later, the woman had exchanged personal information with him and most likely invited him to spend the winter at her home in Mumbai.

They laughed about it later over dinner in a small French café with an excellent wine list. They sat at a tiny round table, so cramped that their knees were touching as they leaned close together, their words rushing out like a burbling stream.

That evening after clasping hands goodnight, Sherlock walked back to his flat pulling his coat tight around himself as the weather turned chill. Once home, he toed off his shoes and hung up his suit. He changed into his pajamas and after readying himself for bed, he cut off the light, and went into his mind palace.

In the back of his mind, behind the library where he stored his studies and the lounge where he stored his maps, was a secret room. The bright red door was always kept locked until Sherlock was completely alone. This room was filled with images of Victor.

Victor biting his knuckles, his wayward tongue licking the joint in a circle.

Victor pulling off his shirt and trousers before jumping into the pond on the grounds of his Father's house in Norfolk.

Victor asleep on Sherlock's bed. His lips open slightly as if waiting for a kiss.

Sherlock found an empty alcove and put in the memory of the two of them sitting at a small round table, legs intertwined. Victor rubbing his leg unconsciously up and down along Sherlock's inseam as he bounced it on his knee. Sherlock trying to keep his breathing regular as he watched Victor's wine reddened lips shape itself into a smile._ "Mon chéri"_ he had said, and Sherlock had imagined him saying those words before touching his burgundy red lips to the soft skin on the inside of Sherlock's thigh.

A thousand stolen images of Victor flashed behind his eyes coalescing into a fantasy whose soft lips and strong hands touched Sherlock's body quickening his breath and pulling out a dozen moans and sighs.

Victor, whose broad chest and strong arms looked equally well bare or in a bespoke suit.

Victor whose smile magically made all sad thoughts vanish.

Victor who made him laugh and who apparently found him funny as well.

He longed to feel those lips laughing around him. The thought of it made him sigh in pleasure.

Victor.

His Victor.

_'Mon Cheri' ._

After he had closed and locked the door behind him, he looked around his empty room and felt shame. Victor was his friend. Victor's love was pure. It was he whose dirty thoughts insisted on painting Victor as something he was not. He was so much lower than Victor, so much more common. His thoughts disgusted him. He checked the lock again. Victor must not know, he must never know about Sherlock's base lust. He would never forgive him. He would go away, and Sherlock would lose him forever.

Sherlock turned on his side and tried to sleep, but disgust dominated his thoughts so that sleep was quite impossible. He rose, put on his robe, and pulled out his box of experiments. He was working on perfumes. He now knew how to tell by smell what a scent was made of. He would no longer be tempted to taste as he had been so long ago. He had improved his skills of observations so that he would never have to show that side of himself to the world again.


	8. Dreams of Eternity

_A piece of toast, plain. Out of butter and Jam. Black coat? No, the pale blue blazer and jeans. No need to get dressed up when everything I wear will be covered in dog hair in less than an hour. The phone beeps. _

_**[I'm here.]**_

_ Why does my heart speed up whenever I'm about to meet him. I'd think that after all of this time..._

Sherlock grabs his coat, putting it on as he walks through the door. Quick footfalls as he flies down the stairs.

_ It's a beautiful day. _

Sitting on the curb is a little green wagon with three dogs in the back seat. Sherlock shoves his suitcase on the floorboard behind his seat and climbs in, fastening his seatbelt. He turns toward Victor and returns his bright smile. They pull out only to stop at the corner to wait for a bus that is trying to turn around in the narrow road. Then after weaving through the city streets, they reach the motorway.

Time runs differently when Sherlock is with Victor. It is more immediate, more present. Now that they are together it becomes an eternity that Sherlock never wants to end.

_The wind blows in through the windows causing his hair to flutter. Victor has been growing sideburns. The short, blunt hairs glow red in the morning sunlight. Sherlock wants to trace their rough edges with his thumbs. He wants to shave them off and caress the smooth skin of Victor's face. Instead, he turns away watching the green Spring leaves rush toward Summer._

Victor rolls the windows up. At his command, the dogs pull their heads back inside the car, and lay obediently down._ Sherlock understands. He also feels the desire to lay down at his feet._ Victor has one hand on the top of the wheel and two fingers holding the bottom. His knee is bouncing with the beat of the music on the radio. _Sherlock doesn't note the minutes that pass. He memorizes instead the shape of Victor's profile, the length of his lashes, the rhythm of his breathing._

It isn't until Victor reaches out to turn off the music that time resumes its pace.

"You were wrong," Victor said.

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "Wrong about what?"

"About the months. I looked it up. One cycle of the moon is twenty nine and a half days long, not twenty eight. When you add it up, it's closer to twelve months in a year than it is to thirteen. You were wrong."

"And if I was, I still fail to understand why this should be the first thing that you say to me after I have gone to the trouble of accompanying you on this trip. What happened to 'Hello Sherlock. Good morning'?"

"Hello, Sherlock. Good Morning. You were wrong."

"And so you get to gloat about it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it's so rare for me to catch you out on a science matter."

"Well, if that's what gives you satisfaction, then gloat away. "

"All right. You were wrong! wrong! wrong!"

"Yes, fine. Out of your system?"

"Not quite. You know, Sherlock, you may be brilliant in Mathematics and Chemistry, but you know bullocks about Astronomy!"

"Okay, are you done now?"

"Yes, I'm done."

"Good. In my defense, I didn't get any sleep the night before we went out. I had work due the next morning. The instructor never bothered to cover the material in lecture, so it took me a bit of time to figure it out myself from first principles."

"You were supposed to learn that in your study group. Why don't you just go to your supervisions like any other student?"

"Because my supervisor is an idiot."

"Idiot or no, he probably knew how to work the problems that you were assigned."

"It's tedious trying to slow my mind down to his level."

Victor laughed. "I know that everyone isn't a genius like you, but if you could just learn to be nice to people, maybe they'd want to help you sometimes."

"It's not my way. You can get away with it because you're charismatic and people like you. I'm argumentative and annoying. People hate me. No amount of rubbing shoulders with the fellows at the Buttery is going to make me any more popular, so why bother?"

"You bother, because none of us can live alone in this world."

Sherlock wanted to say, " You live alone, but you don't need to. You can live with me ." Instead, he bowed his head. He had Victor's friendship and companionship. It was enough.

As soon as they arrived at the house, Victor opened the door and let the dogs run free. They ran through the lawn, yelping and jumping. Sherlock reached down and picked up his bag. It was covered in dog hair as were his clothes. He was considering digging in his bag for his lint brush when the front door opened and Mr Trevor tottered out.

Mr Trevor was a big man with broad shoulders and barrel chest. His face was square and his ears were pressed flat against his head of graying hair. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up revealing two strong arms encircled with elaborate tattoos. He carried a gold-handled walking stick, but he dropped it the minute that Victor came into range, and he hugged the young man to his chest lifting him up off the ground in his enthusiasm despite being an inch shorter than his son.

Victor sang out a laugh like a melody, and his father accompanied him with a voice an octave deeper.

Sherlock lifted his bag over his shoulder and walked toward the door, but Mr Trevor grabbed him with one arm and hugged him to his side. "Come now, you don't expect to get away that easily, do you?" he said squeezing Sherlock tightly before releasing him with a heavy thump on the back which made him stagger. Victor bent down and handed his stick back to him, and they walked arm and arm to the door.

Victor's home was squat and flat, but comfortable. It was situated on a large plot of land, an inheritance from Victor's mother. Sherlock had visited once before and already knew how to find the guest room. He hung up his bag and was considering taking a shower when Victor stuck his head in and said, "I want to stretch my legs. Let's take a walk."

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock followed him

The sky was cloudy blue as they crossed the lawn. Victor walked in long strides toward a familiar wooded path. The trees stretched over them blocking out the sunlight, their leaves creating shadows that moved with every breeze.

Sherlock paused when they reached the lake. He remembered a warm summer's day. Diving under the water and coming up beside Victor to splash water on his face. In revenge Victor tackled him taking him under the surface, arms wrapped around each other, feet slipping in the mud. Later, after lying on the shore to dry out, he skipped rocks across the still surface of the water, four skips, then five, only to have Victor skip seven. It was too cold to swim today.

Victor beckoned for him to follow. "Come, I have something I want to show you."

He led Sherlock down a narrow trail that he had never noticed before. The air was thick with the sounds of birds singing out their mating calls. It was easy for them, Sherlock thought. A simple song, part of their genes, that led them to find a mate. Did birds ever get spurned? What happened if the mate they chose didn't choose them. He supposed that they simply found another. For some reason, this thought disturbed Sherlock. He shook his head to banish it.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Someplace special. Someplace magical." Victor replied picking up the pace.

The path seemed to be rarely used, but a log bridge placed across a dry stream bed suggested that it had once been much more popular. They climbed past a copse of large oaks and came at last to the top of a hill. In a clearing surrounded by trees stood a pile of stones. They formed a low wall, two to three feet high which formed the edge of a raised platform made of greyish-white paving stones. The stone was unlike the other rocks on the hill. It surely had been brought from far away. Victor leapt up onto the platform and gazed at the sky overhead.

"These are the Roman Ruins," he said. "Hundreds of years ago the Romans ruled this land. They built this structure. My mother brought me here when I was a child. She told me that she danced here when she was young. She imagined that this was the base of an ancient temple dedicated to the goddess of Victory. The day before I was born, she came here to pray for a healthy child. She named me Victor in honor of these old stones.

I feel such a sense of history when I stand here. I wonder what those Romans must have thought standing in this place so far from home."

Victor had been standing on the rocks as if he were one of the marble statues that they had watched in the museum. He looked around and noticed Sherlock crouching beside the wall. He had pulled out a pocket knife and was scraping the mortar from the groves between the stones into a pocket handkerchief.

"Sherlock what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a sample of the mortar.

"Why?"

"I want to date this structure. To see how old it is."

"I told you, this is the Roman Ruin."

"You also told me that this was a temple to the goddess of Victory, but that's not likely is it? At the time of the Roman conquest of Britain, there was a scaling down of personal structures, that's true, but during that period temples increased in size. It seems unlikely that such a small base would have been used as a temple."

"I know that it probably wasn't a temple. Maybe it was a storage house or a watch station. Does it really matter?"

"I want to take a sample to see if I can match the origin of the stones and the composition of the mortar."

"Do you have to ruin it by speaking of it that way? Can't you just enjoy the magic of it all without needing to analyze everything."

"I don't think analysis ruins things. It will be much easier to appreciate the site if I know more about who built it and why."

"Oh Sherlock! Nevermind," Victor said stepping down off of the stone structure. "We'd best be getting back. It's almost time for Lunch."

Sherlock rose to his feet, wrapping the mortar securely in the handkerchief and placing it in his pocket before rushing to catch up with Victor.


	9. Mr Trevor's advice

Immediately after lunch, Victor excused himself to take the dogs for a run. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he stared after him, wondering how he should have acted on the hill. He turned back to find the dark eyes of Mr Trevor examining him.

Sherlock stood stiffly in his chair wondering if Mr Trevor would ask him what was wrong. He was surprised then when he said instead, "I often think that I let Victor leave home much too soon. It would have been different if Emily were still alive. She would have sheltered him, taken care of him. She was an incredibly loving person you know. I wish that you could have met her. I was grieving her death as well and didn't think myself good company, but I sometimes think that if I had kept him for another year he might not have turned out this way."

"What way?" Sherlock said wondering if Victor's own father was going to say a bad word about the man who was so obviously perfect.

Mr Trevor gave a faint smile and then said, "I only meant that despite having such a big heart, and such a curiosity for the world around him, Victor doesn't let people in. I didn't realize that he'd take her loss this badly. He seemed fine, but ... do you know that you are the first friend that he has brought home to see me? They've always been welcome, but he doesn't make friends easily. I suppose because he fears to lose them like he lost his mother and, in a sense, me. After she died, I was a bit distant. Sherlock, I'd like to ask you to watch out for him. My heart isn't what it should be, and well... after I die, I just don't want him to be lonely."

Sherlock looked at Mr Trevor's coat pocket. He had a bottle of medicine there. Sherlock remembered him reaching for it the first time they'd met. Victor had told him about Sherlock's skill at reading people at first sight, and he'd asked for a demonstration. Sherlock had deduced his travels in New Zealand by the tattoos on his arms, and having noticed that some of the text on his tattoos was older, he told him that he had once known someone with the initials J.A. whom he was trying to forget.

Mr Trevor had breathed in suddenly and reached for his left arm. Victor had become incredibly excited then and forced him to sit down and take one of his pills. His line of deductions was forgotten as they took him back inside for a rest. Mr Trevor had never told him who J.A. was. He didn't know if it was appropriate to ask now. Before he could decide, Mr Trevor rose to his feet.

"Come Sherlock, we're going into town. I need some more food for dinner, and Victor will probably be sulking for a good while yet." He lifted a set of car keys from a hook on the wall and walked out of the kitchen door to the drive. When they reached the car, he tossed the keys to Sherlock who stared at them. "Well I'm not driving with my back the way it is, so get in. You do know how to drive don't you?"

"Theoretically. That is, I did drive my parents car when I was eleven. I had watched them do it plenty of times and it seemed simple enough to operate."

"Well then, you should be fine."

"In the interest of truth, I did hit a tree afterward."

"Oh, well, take it slow then. You have to learn sometime, and this car has seen better days. It can take a few extra dents if need be."

Sherlock hesitantly sat behind the driver's seat and ran through the steps to start the car. He drove slowly down the lane only speeding up when Mr Trevor reached over and stepped on his foot to push the gas pedal down further. Then it was looking to the side and remembering the turn signal. Stopping an inch past the stop sign and turning at the light. He was beginning to think that he had finally got the hang of it when the car in front of him stopped suddenly and the mattress, which had been strapped precariously on top, fell on the road in front of them. Sherlock slammed on the brakes making a loud screech. They fell back against their seats, and Mr Trevor said, "Well, that wasn't very good for my back."

Sherlock parked the car, and for the next several minutes they worked to help the man in front of them strap the mattress back on. The car slowly drove away, and Sherlock returned to Mr Trevor's side only to be startled when a boy ran quickly by him followed by an older man who yelled out "Thief! Catch him!"

Sherlock started running, chasing the boy who turned and ran across the street. Sherlock slid across the hood of a parked car to make a sharper line finally catching up with the boy before he could turn down an alley. He knocked the boy to his knees, and then grabbed his arm, pulling it behind him so that he couldn't get away.

A few moments later the man, a local shop keeper, caught up with them followed closely by Mr Trevor.

"You thief! Give me my money back!" the shop keeper yelled at the boy.

"I didn't do nothing, the youth said pulling against Sherlock's hold."

Mr Trevor held out his hands placatingly. "Now calm down, both of you. Sherlock, let the young man up."

Sherlock stepped back, and the boy shook off his grip before saying, "I didn't do nothin'"

"Can someone please tell me what happened?" Mr Trevor said.

"He stole two hundred pounds from my till."

"I didn't steal nothing. He just came at me accusing me of taking his money, and so I scarpered. I didn't do nothin'"

"Young man," Mr Trevor said, "Can you please be so kind as to turn out your pockets?"

The boy straightened himself with dignity and very obviously reached into each pocket showing they were empty except for his wallet. He passed his wallet to Mr Trevor who opened it and showed that it certainly did not have two hundred pounds in it."

"Then he hid it somewhere!" The shop keeper said agitatedly.

"Perhaps if we go back to your shop, we can find where this money has got to."

They walked down the street coming to the door of the shop just as an old lady was leaving it. "Mrs Mason, good to see you. Did you happen to witness this alleged robbery?" Mr Trevor asked.

"Um, well."

The shop keeper nodded. "Yes, she was there. She was by the coffee beans when it happened."

Mr Trevor looked around at the crowd of people who had turned to watch the commotion. "I think that it would be better if we went inside to discuss this. Sir? Mrs Mason?" He reached out his arms and like a shepherd led them all back inside.

Once the door was closed, the shop keeper went on a tirade about how he heard what sounded like an accident just as he was counting the money. He ran to the window to see what was going on, and when he came back, the money that he had set aside to put in the safe was gone.

Sherlock took the opportunity to walk around the small shop examining the shelves full of snacks and cigarettes. He stood next to the coffee and looked over the top of the shelf at the four of them: The agitated shopkeeper, the slouching youth, the distracted old woman, and Mr Trevor calmly listening to it all.

"It seems to me," Mr Trevor said. "That the money is most likely somewhere in this shop. The young man certainly didn't have time to hide it once he left."

"Well, I'm not letting him go until I find it. I'm calling the police."

The old woman stepped forward then. "Please, do I have to stay for this? I was just on my way home to take my shot. I have diabetes, I can't wait around, my blood sugar."

"I suppose that if you give the shopkeeper your phone number, Mrs Mason, the police can call you to take your statement."

"Thank you," the woman said shuffling toward the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock called out. They turned toward him. "Don't let her leave, she's the thief."

"What do you mean?" Mr Trevor asked. "Why do you think that Mrs Mason is the thief."

Sherlock pointed at the magazine rack. "He said that she was standing here by the coffee. Yet she has put no coffee in her bag. She wasn't here for the coffee. She may not even drink coffee, she was looking at these magazines instead."

"So what?" The shop keeper asked.

"These are racing magazines. Mrs Mason is a gambler. That's supported by her horseshoe key chain. It would have only taken a moment to walk forward while you were looking out of the window and take the money. If he had taken it, he would have had to pass you there and back. Surely you would have noticed. Look in her bag."

"This is outrageous!" Mrs Mason said. "Who does this boy think he is to violate my privacy like this?"

"It's easily proved. Mrs Mason, can I please see your bag?"

"I have no intention..."

"Mrs Mason, I would like to be able to resolve this without having to get the police involved, but I assure you that one way or another we will look in that purse," Mr Trevor said leveling her with his gaze.

She reluctantly gave him the purse which he passed to the shopkeeper. He turned it out on the counter and found a folded copy of the racing times, some gum, a coin purse, a pink rabbit's foot, and two hundred pounds.

"Mrs Mason! "The shopkeeper said shocked. The young man looked vindicated.

"I have a limited income. It's hard sometimes to get by."

"And this makes it all right for you to steal?" Mr Trevor said.

The shopkeeper picked up the notes and said, "I'm calling the police."

"But my diabetes! I really do need to take a shot."

"I'll let you go," Mr Trevor said over the objection of the shopkeeper, "But only if you promise never to do such a thing again."

"You can't trust the old witch," the young man said. "She'll just do the same thing at the next shop and blame some other poor bloke, won't she now?"

"She won't. Will you Mrs Mason?" Mr Trevor said putting one hand on her shoulder.

Mrs Mason shook her head.

"Now give her back her purse."

"You can't just let her go!"

"You got back your money. Justice is served."

"But she needs to be punished."

"I think that being exposed like this is punishment enough. Apologize."

"I am sorry," Mrs Mason said bowing her head. "Can I go now?"

Mr Trevor glared at the shop keeper until he lowered his eyes, and then he gathered Mrs Mason's things and placed them back into her purse before passing them to her and opening the door. She shuffled out with a whispered, "Thank you."

"What about me?" The young man said, "I've been manhandled, abused, and falsely accused by that man there. Don't I deserve something?"

"I suppose you do," Mr Trevor said. He looked over at Sherlock. "What should we do for him?"

Sherlock looked the teen up and down and then walked to the display of earphones near the window. He picked out a pair and passed it to the young man who took it gratefully.

"This seems to be a fair exchange for his troubles, don't you think?"

"I come out the worse for the deal," the shopkeeper said.

"You almost had this young man falsely accused of a crime. That could have haunted him his whole life, but it was simply your own prejudice. A pair of earphones is a small price to pay for a lesson learned, don't you think?"

The man nodded and the young man left with a smile on his face. Once the door was closed, he continued, "And now you have a loyal customer for life."

"What do you mean?" The shop owner said.

Sherlock answered, "That man knows that you'll never dare to accuse him of stealing again, so he'll keep coming by if only to gloat. I'm guessing that over the years, you'll get a lot of his business."

The shopkeeper considered this, and then he took the money and carefully put it back into his cash register. Mr Trevor opened the door for Sherlock and they walked out into the street. "That was some good deducing you did there," Mr Trevor said. "Have you ever considered detective work?"

"I'm a chemist," Sherlock said.

"There are plenty of good chemists in this world, but darned few good detectives. I think that you should seriously consider it. Take a few law classes while you're up at that fancy University, why don't you."

"I..."

"No need to think about it now. You're a young man. You have plenty of time to decide what to do with your life."

"It is interesting, solving crimes. But I've had dealings with the police before, and I am certain that no police force would hire me. Nor do I think that I am likely to make a good police detective."

"Then don't join the police, just consult with them."

"A consulting detective? Is there such a thing?"

"If there isn't then make the position yourself."

"Is that even possible?"

"Why not? You may think that you know what will happen to you in your life, but you really don't. The world can up and change on you without your knowledge or consent. Birth is an accident. When it comes down to it, each man must make his own way in the world." He patted Sherlock on the back then and smiled. "Come on lad. We'd best get started on that shopping if we're to get back before dark."


	10. What our parents hold dear

When they returned to the house, Sherlock left Mr Trevor in the kitchen while he went in search of Victor. He wasn't in the back with the dogs, or in his room or Sherlock's. Sherlock was just about to go back to the kitchen to ask Mr Trevor when he noticed a door open at the end of the hall. He peered inside and found Victor sitting with his back against the headboard of a large bed topped with a dusty rose-colored coverlet.

Sherlock walked slowly inside and looked around the room. There was a mirrored dresser topped with a hair brush and an ivory colored jewelry box, white sheer curtains below rose-colored draperies, and a wooden rocking chair. Sherlock didn't need anyone to tell him that this had been Emily Trevor's bedroom.

Victor's stocking feet were flat against the bed, his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked up at Sherlock.

"Hello," he said. "Did you and Dad have a nice trip?"

"It was certainly interesting," Sherlock said walking forward to stand next to him. He considered sitting on the bed, but decided against it.

"I'm sorry," Victor said. "I was acting a bit juvenile. I shouldn't have gone off in a huff. I just ... I suppose that my parents are a sensitive spot for me. I think that I must have felt that you were insulting my mother's intelligence by questioning what she said about the Roman...about the rocks. I can see that you might be right. No one with any real knowledge of the period has ever come to verify their age. It is entirely possible that my mother was wrong. I should be open to the possibility that she and I were mistaken."

"You _should_ be open to it...but you're not."

Victor laughed once, "I suppose you're right. For me, they will always be the Roman Rocks. The place where the ancients poured out libations for the goddess of Victory. It's part of my worldview. Part of what made me. We all need a way to deal with the ugliness of this world. I do it with my music, and my studies, and by imagining my mother dancing in the same places that the Ancient Romans danced before."

"Your mother surely danced there. No matter the origin of the structure, that almost certainly was true."

"I know. It's just that I want it all to be true, and even if you prove that the Roman's didn't build it, in my heart it will always be so, because that's the world my mother believed in. The world that she taught me to believe in, and that is what made me who I am."

"Then I hope that it is Roman because I wouldn't want you to be any different than you are now."

Victor looked at Sherlock then, his eyes bright. "Thank you. Now let's go see what Dad is cooking for dinner."

Victor climbed off of the bed and put on his shoes. They went to the kitchen to find a salad laid out and chicken breasts cooking on the stove. Mr Trevor turned back to face them.

"There you are, boys. I wanted to give you fish, but none of it looked good, so today it's chicken. You know what? Let's go fishing tomorrow morning, then we can have fish for lunch before you boys go back to University. What do you say?"

"Sounds great Dad! I'll go find the fishing gear."

Sherlock followed Victor out and they rummaged around the old shed until they found the rod and tackle. They ate dinner in the kitchen and Victor's laughter filled the room. Sherlock thought that he may have never been more happy.

That night, after dinner, they lay out on the lawn and looked up at the stars. They were beautiful, and it was even more beautiful because Victor was there.

Victor went to check on the dogs, and Sherlock was about to go to his bed when Mr Trevor called him into his study.

"Sherlock," he said, "I know that you're not certain about detective work, but I want you to talk to a friend of mine. His name is Detective Charles Marinen and he works at the local Constabulary. He's often talked with me about the difficulty in finding good detectives. I know this is a bit forward of me, but I've already written you a letter of introduction."

"A letter of introduction?"

"I know. It's an old tradition, a bit before your time. But, I want you to talk to someone who knows more about it than I do."

"I'm a student. I'm in the sciences. I'm not interested in detective work."

"Never say never, my lad. Never say never."

Right then there was a heavy knock at the door. "I'll get it!" Victor called. He returned a few moments later with a curious expression on his face. "Dad, there's some man to see you. He calls himself Mr Hudson. Should I tell him to come back tomorrow?"

"No, probably something about work. Send him in."

The man who entered was tan and narrow-faced. His clothes and boots were worn, but his gold watch was expensive. His weathered skin and hands suggested that he had fallen on hard times in the past, but the diamond ring on his finger suggested that lately he had come into some money. He looked around the room covetously and then turned toward Mr Trevor. His voice was reedy and thin.

"So, are you Jack Trevor?"

"Yes. How may I help you?"

"I have some business to discuss, in private if you please."

Sherlock and Victor walked out of the room. Victor looked back as his father closed the door. "I don't like the look of that man," he said.

They waited in the kitchen until they heard the man leave, then Victor jumped up and walked to the front door to make sure that he had gone. He locked it. When they went into the study, Mr Trevor's face was white. He had his pill bottle in his hand.

"Are you alright, Dad?" Victor asked concerned.

"I'll be fine in a minute." He said pouring pills into his palm. Sherlock could see that his hand shook. He walked over and poured himself a whiskey from a crystal decanter and chased the pill with it.

"What did he want? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Mr Trevor said. "Just some business, urgent business that I need to think about. I'm sorry, but we'll have to go fishing another time."

"What did he say?"

"This is private business, personal business, It's nothing for you to worry about. You go on to bed. I'm going to stay up a bit longer."

Victor nodded, then he walked over and hugged his father goodnight before walking out of the room. Mr Trevor closed the door behind them. Victor glanced at Sherlock, concern and a bit of hurt in his eyes. Then they went to their separate rooms.

Sherlock sat down on his bed and tried to figure out who this Mr Hudson was. He ran over the clues in his mind, but could come to no conclusion. He was about Mr Trevor's age. He was former military, and something about him screamed disreputable. Perhaps it was the difference in his fortunes. His mixture of poor garments and rich accessories made him look like a grave robber. He wasn't, not literally, but it disturbed him nonetheless, because whatever he had done had affected Mr Trevor strongly. He had seen it clearly when the man had sent them off to bed. Mr Trevor was afraid.


	11. Graduation

They returned to University the following morning and resumed their studies. Victor was worried about his father's health, but he assured him that he was fine, and with the end of term exams, both of them were too busy to visit. However, when an ulcer caused Mr Trevor to spend a few days in hospital, Victor returned home only coming in to town when necessary to complete the requirements for his degree.

Sherlock had been used to seeing Victor almost every day, but two weeks went by where Victor did not return at all. Sherlock tried to carry on as he did before by dining at their favorite restaurants, but he realized that a table for one was so much lonelier than a table for two. In the end, he ended up not eating very much at all.

He knew though that Victor would have to return for the graduation ceremony. He had the day marked on his calendar. He had bought him a gift, a silver plated bottle opener. It was small enough to fit into his pocket, and it was engraved. It read...

**To Victor on his graduation **

**Love Sherlock**

It was innocuous and practical. Ordinary enough that Victor could keep it with him always, and yet special enough not to give away. It was the kind of gift that one friend would give to another. And yet, in his secret heart he thrilled to know that he had finally confessed his love for Victor, if only in this small coded way.

But when graduation day arrived, Victor did not return. His father had ulcers, and his operation was scheduled for that day. Sherlock walked through the campus. He passed the robed figures and their families without really seeing them. To him they were like ghosts, barely registering on his consciousness. He felt completely alone. He stopped in front of the church and listened to the bells chiming. It sounded like a funeral bell. He returned to the lab.

When Victor was gone, Sherlock worked. He never felt lonely when he was working. When he would concentrate on a problem, he could forget that he even had a body. The problems in his head took all of his attention. His studies advanced, and his instructors were pleased with him. They invited him to stay over the summer for the research period to do independent work.

One evening, he had just left the lab when he received a text from Victor.

**[I have Good News. Meet at your flat?]**

**[Yes! One hour.]**

Sherlock picked up his pace, almost running to get home. He threw his discarded clothes in the laundry and straightened the pillows on his couch. Then he placed the gift box in the center of the coffee table. He stared at it for a moment and then picked again. He ended up hiding it behind the skull.

At the knock, Sherlock threw open the door to see Victor. He was wearing a tan suit, a coffee brown silk shirt with a matching tie, and a beautiful smile. He appeared to have just come back from dinner. (He only wore cuff links to impress.) He held a bottle of wine in his hand, and Sherlock smiled to think how appropriate his gift would be.

"Welcome honored Graduate," Sherlock said stepping aside to let him in. Victor entered and he closed the door behind him. When Sherlock turned, he found himself wrapped up in a hug. As always Sherlock was surprised at the ease with which the Trevors expressed their feeling. He slowly moved his hand up to touch Victor's back, but by then, Victor was pulling away. He gave him one firm pat on the back and then walked into the room, setting the bottle of wine on the coffee table.

Victor put down the bag that he had on his shoulder and pulled out two wine glasses. "I saw the results," he said. "Passed your exams with flying colors. Good job! We have more than one thing to celebrate."

"Did you ever doubt that I would pass?"

"I would never doubt you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled, wondering at the trust in that statement. He almost missed the fact that Victor had pulled out a bottle opener and started screwing it into the cork of the bottle.

"Wait!" he said rushing to get the box from behind the skull. "Use this."

Victor put down the bottle and accepted the box. He opened it carefully, and then held the bottle opener in his hand as he read it. Then he put it down on the table and gave Sherlock another hug. "Thank you," he whispered, his lips beside Sherlock's ear. He kissed his cheek and then turned away so that he missed seeing Sherlock shiver.

"But I've almost got the bottle open, so I'll use this one next time." He pulled out the cork and poured the wine in the glasses. He sat on the couch motioning for Sherlock to sit beside him, then he passed a glass to Sherlock. The wine was dark red, almost burgundy. He held the glass up high, and Sherlock was distracted by the glow of his eyes. He touched his glass to Sherlock's making it ding.

"To the future," he said.

"To the future," Sherlock echoed.

They sipped and Sherlock was captivated by a drop balanced on the edge of Victor's lip. He watched as the lip rose into a smile. Then, noticing that he was staring, he took a sip of his own wine and turned away setting his glass down on the table.

"You said that you had good news."

Victor put down his glass and sat back on the couch. "Yes! I wanted you to be the first to know. I have a job."

"Already?"

"Yes! You know that Indian woman who we met at the Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes."

"Her son wanted to thank me for what I did for his mother. I just came back from having dinner with him."

"I can see that. You have a curry stain on the cuff of your jacket."

"Do I?" he said lifting his sleeve to look. "Well, you'll have to remind me to rinse that out before I go. Anyway, her son manages a chemical company. He told me about all of the problems that they have in their operations. The managers that they send to the factories don't speak the same language as most of their workers, and even when they do, their cultures are so different that their are massive misunderstandings. It's a huge problem for them. I told him several things that he might try to aid communication in the workplace and he said that what they really needed was someone like me to go from site to site and implement the suggestions. When he learned which languages I spoke, he hired me on the spot. It's a very good position. I get to travel, and the money is good, very good. He wants me to start right away."

"That's marvelous!" Sherlock said. "But I don't suppose that the company is in Cambridge. Where will you be living, London?"

"Chennai."

Sherlock went through all the places in London that he knew and came up lacking. "Is that near Covent Garden?"

"No, it's in India, Tamil Nadu. Well, at first I'll spend a few weeks in New Delhi to get my paperwork in order and learn more about the company. Then they'll arrange to get me a house."

"India? The country India?"

"Yes, the country India. What other India is there?"

Sherlock calculated the distance from Cambridge to India, across Europe and the Middle East. That would be more than 4,500 miles one way. And it would be one way, away, away from Sherlock. Probably Forever.

Sherlock had frozen in shock. How had he been such an idiot. He knew that Victor was graduating. Of course he would go away. It was a wonder that he had stayed in England this long. Hadn't he said that he wanted to travel the world. What had he thought? That Victor would take him with him? Of course he wouldn't. Sherlock was just his friend. Just a friend. They had decided. Sherlock couldn't breathe.

He felt hands shaking his shoulders and he focused on Victor's concerned face.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"You went away there for a moment. I was worried."

"Oh, sorry."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, What?"

"Are you crying?"

Sherlock reached up to touch his face and found that he was indeed crying.

"Oh, yes. I suppose so."

Victor picked up Sherlock's right hand and held it in both of his. "Sherlock. What's wrong. Tell me what's wrong and I'll fix it."

Sherlock turned to stare at him then. "You will. You can fix this?"

"I'll do everything I can. Just tell me. What's wrong?"

What's wrong? How about the fact that the world felt like it was ending. He had never imagined that Victor would leave. It was idiotic in retrospect. Of course he would leave, but he couldn't leave. If Victor left, a part of Sherlock would leave with him. It would be like someone removing his liver and taking it away. It would leave a huge hole in him. A loss that he couldn't survive.

"Don't," Sherlock said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't go. Don't leave me."

Sherlock started to shudder. He closed his eyes to try to shut out the reality of his loss. Victor was holding him now. His strong hands grasping Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock focused on the contact. Victor was touching him. He was here now. He hadn't gone, not yet. He felt a touch to his lips. Someone was kissing him, softly, delicately. He opened his eyes and confirmed that it was Victor.

Sherlock sighed in wonder, and his lips parted. Victor leaned forward and kissed him again open mouthed, his tongue slipping between Sherlock's lips. Then Sherlock exploded.

His stomach tightened almost to the point of pain. His back curved, and his arms came up almost without thought to hold Victor's back. His groin grew stiff, and he felt dizzy. He needed oxygen. He puffed out his chest and breathed through his nose, since his mouth was occupied. Victor was kissing in earnest now. Sherlock found that his finger's were in Victor's hair. He didn't even remember telling them to move there.

Their lips parted and Sherlock focused on Victor's face. His expression was tender and wanting. He ran his thumb across Sherlock's trembling lips.

Sherlock spoke. "But I thought... but you said... You told me that you never..."

"Never say never," Victor said and his mouth was on Sherlock's again. Sherlock held on tight, pulling him down to the couch. Every point of contact between them felt on fire. The smooth slide of his Victor's trousers against his, felt like layers of the Earth shifting against each other. It was indeed an earthquake that was happening, a shifting of the ground that Sherlock thought was stable. All that he could do was hang on for dear life.

Victor's hands were in his hair. Victor's tongue was in his mouth, and the jacket of his suit tangled in Sherlock's fingers as he tried to worm his way under it to touch Victor's back. Victor pulled away a bit and began to unbutton his jacket. Stopping every so often to steal a kiss. It wasn't stealing though when Sherlock would give anything, everything to him.

Sherlock lifted himself up, drawn toward the man. He felt hands undoing his shirt buttons. He sat up straight as Victor's hands caressed his bare shoulders dropping his shirt to the floor, then there was the feel of brown silk against his skin as he was enveloped in a hug. Sherlock threw back his head, and Victor's tongue was drew curlicues along his neck.

Sherlock felt like he was floating in water. Buoyed up by emotions that were deep enough to drown him. His eyes were closed, and he could hardly believe anything that was happening. He focused on his senses hoping to prove that this wasn't a dream. He could feel the scratch of Victor's cufflinks along his back, the rub of his shirt buttons along his chest. His shoe was about to fall off of his foot as he rubbed his knee along the outside of Victor's leg. And the warmth, the heat in his groin, and between their bodies grew warmer every second.

Sherlock reached up and loosened Victor's tie. He pulled it through the collar and tossed it on the floor. Then he undid the top buttons. Victor grabbed his hand and threaded their fingers together. Then he kissed their joined hands. Sherlock looked into his eyes, warm, questioning eyes.

"Did you always..." Victor asked.

"Always what?"

"Did you always want me like this?"

"Yes. I thought that you knew, but you said..."

"I know what I said, but... after ... You never acted like you wanted anything more. You never reacted to my touch or my hints. I thought that you weren't interested in me."

"You thought that? Then you're an idiot."

Victor laughed and so did Sherlock, and the feel of Victor's laughter against his chest was the most magnificent feeling that he had ever felt in his life, besides the kissing. He reached his lips forward again. Victor glanced down at them and then up into his eyes before surging forward to pin him against the couch. He reached a hand between them to unbutton his shirt without stopping their kiss.

The slide of their bare chests together was enough to stop Sherlock's breathing. He never knew that he could feel this much. He thought that he had been drowning in feeling when Victor was away, but this excitement, this elation. It was almost too much for his heart to bear. He found himself pushing up. His hands grabbing on to Victor's firm shoulders. His lips pulling away to seize onto his Adam's apple. Victor gasped. Sherlock moved his lips across the skin finally tasting the join between his neck and shoulder.

"When you left, I thought it was for the best," Victor said, "but... I couldn't stop thinking about you. I missed you in every restaurant, at every new place that I went. I wanted you by my side. When I saw you walking on campus, I followed you. I'm embarrassed to tell how many times I waited to watch you pass. When I learned about the film that I had wanted so long to see, my first thought was that I wanted you to see it with me.

"I didn't know if you'd want to see me again. You tried to hide it, but I could tell how disappointed you were that day. I figured that you were done with me. I didn't dream that you might still be interested in something more."

Sherlock pulled his lips away from Victor's chest and glanced up at him. A disturbing thought on the edge of his mind. "What do you mean by 'something more'? More than what?"

"More than friendship."

"By more than friendship, do you mean 'more' like sex, or 'more' like love?"

"I...what are you asking?"

"I'm asking if this is just for one night. Is this just a last fling, a night of passion before you leave me forever?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock wormed his way out from under Victor, and sat on the floor. He turned his face away. He could feel his eyes beginning to water, and he wasn't going to let Victor see him cry again.

"Is this what we're to become? What is the popular term, 'Friends with benefits'? " Sherlock said. "You'll go off to India and when it's convenient, perhaps in six months or a year, you'll drop by my apartment for a little..._ coitus more ferarum_."

"Sherlock!"

"What else do you expect me to think? If you gave a damn about me, how could what you had to say possibly be considered good news? You knew that I was signed up to do research this summer. I've at least a full year before I graduate."

Victor put his warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Beloved, now that I know how you feel do you honestly think that I could leave you?" He touched Sherlock's chin, turning it toward him, and with his other hand, he caressed his cheek. "I've been alone most of my life. I never even knew how alone I was until I met you. I don't ever want to be without you again. When it comes to my job, or your school, we'll find a way to make it work."

Victor stared at him in earnest, but Sherlock was already won over. At the word 'beloved', Sherlock's mouth had gone dry. He gazed at Victor as if he had never seen him before. Perhaps he hadn't. He had never dreamed that this Victor existed. A Victor who would change his plans to include him. A Victor who actually wanted him.

Victor leaned forward until their lips were millimeters apart. He waited. Sherlock enthusiastically closed the distance, wrapping his right arm around Victor's shoulder as he pulled him up against his chest. They both gasped from the contact and the glorious kissing continued until some unspecified time later when Sherlock rested his head on Victor's chest. Victor enfolded him gently in his arms peppering kisses on top of his dark hair.

"I could stay on another year. Get my Masters. If they really want me, and he implied that they do, I should be able to go down for a while during the summer, and come back to finish the year. Then next year, you'll have graduated. You're a chemist. There must be a place for you there, and I'm sure that the house that they find me will be big enough for two."

Sherlock smiled. He hadn't guessed that it was possible to be this happy. Victor wanted him. Victor wanted to stay with him. It might be superstitious, but he didn't want to tempt fate by questioning things too much. At this moment, Victor was in his arms, and that was all that he would ever want.


	12. Happiness

Sherlock sat on the floor with the skull on his knees. He wanted to tell someone what had happened, but his only friend, already knew. He turned the empty eye sockets toward him.

"Victor likes me," he told the skull. "I don't know what will happen, but we plan...We're going to have adventures together. He's going to show me the Taj Mahal. Won't that be great? Don't know if you can come. There's probably some kind of law about taking human remains across national lines. You won't mind sitting in a box, will you? Better than sitting in the mud where I found you, isn't it, old boy? You don't mind me calling you old boy, do you? We're friends now aren't we?"

Then Sherlock's phone rang, and he dived across the floor to retrieve it from where it had fallen under the couch. "Hello!" he said.

"Sherlock, hello. How are you?"

"Fine, I'm good. Where are you?"

"Just arriving at my father's house. I've made arrangements to talk about the specifics of my new position on Monday. Do you think that I should tell my father about the job yet?"

"Are you going to tell him about us?"

"I think I'd better. He'll know something has changed the moment I walk into the house. You've made me so happy."

Sherlock touched his cheek to confirm that Victor had actually succeeded in making him blush over the phone. "You're right, your father will know something has changed as soon as he sees you. You might as well tell him everything."

"That's good. That's what I want to do. He'll be pleased. He never liked my decision to stay alone. He felt that it was somehow his fault. And, he'll be pleased that I'm with you. You know how much my father likes you don't you?"

"He only likes me because I'm your friend."

"No, Sherlock, you're wrong. My father told me once that he had never met a young man with so much promise. He thinks that you'll be famous someday, a great man. He told me so, and I know it must be true. You'll be the best at whatever you end up doing. You are a genius after all."

"And so are you."

"No need to lie to me. I'm not a genius. I'll never change the world, but you will. I know you will."

"I miss you," Sherlock said. Suddenly he felt it, a loss like hunger.

"I miss you too, Love. I'll be back in a couple of days. I just need to get Father settled, then I'll come back. I can't wait to see you. I can't wait to hold you again. I'm at the door. I'll call tonight to tell you what he says, good night, Beloved."

"Good night, Victor."

Sherlock put his hands in his hair and curled up tight. He was trying to hold in his feelings, but they kept spilling out. He was afraid that he would wake up and find that it was all a dream. Sleep was impossible, so he rose and picked up his violin.

He loved playing the violin. He could pour himself into the music and let it drain all of the emotion out of him. He decided on the first movement of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto. He could hear the piano part in his head as he waited to begin. He struck his notes precisely at first and then with more freedom. He fell in love with the melodic line and stroked it smooth one moment staccato the next allowing his passion to be revealed.

Victor enjoyed his music. He had asked him once why he didn't perform in public. He had even gone so far as to offer him a chance to perform at the next church service, but he shook his head violently. He couldn't play in front of a crowd. Even from the first, his playing had been mostly for himself alone. It had started as a way to keep his overactive hands and mind busy. His mother also thought that it might help him with his mathematics. He had found that it was it was an incredible comfort simply to be able to make sounds that could express the reckless energy in the core of his soul. Sometimes playing music pierced his heart so deeply that he began to cry. He did not cry, but he played the notes with passion and agility until he reached the high note at the very end. Then he dropped his arms to his side holding the violin with only his chin and shoulder as he closed his eyes and let the feelings wash through him.

He opened his eyes then, and put his violin and bow carefully in his case. He was calmer now, but he knew that he would still be unable to sleep, so he showered, dressed, threw on his coat, and went out for a walk.

Victor wanted to see the world. Sherlock, however, would be content simply to know one part of the world well. Despite the years that he had lived here, he hadn't yet learned all there was to know about Cambridge. He was suddenly filled with a desire to know every part of the city. He felt that his days here were numbered, so he walked the streets trying to memorize everything about the place.

He had walked often in his lonely days without Victor. In his wanderings, he had traveled to dark back alleys and places that appealed to his sorrow. Now he walked beside the river Cam enjoying the beauty of the town on the very cusp of summer. He stopped to admire the Mathematical bridge, its straight lines creating a perfect arch as the water flowed below. There was a sweet susseration coming from the leaves of the nearby trees, and he was beginning to think that he might be able to catch a few hours sleep tonight when his phone rang. He saw Victor's name on the screen and smiled.

"Hello Victor," he said with a love softened voice.

In contrast, Victor's voice was crisp and direct as he said, "Sherlock, I'm in the hospital. My father has had a heart attack."


End file.
